


Criminal

by tiger_moran



Series: Lyric [18]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Caring, Don't copy to another site, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27514087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Eighteenth in a collection of standalone but also interconnected Moriarty and Moran fics inspired by lyrics from songs, particularly pop/rock songs.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty
Series: Lyric [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992709
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Criminal

**Author's Note:**

> Fiona Apple – Criminal
> 
> What I need is a good defense  
> Cause I'm feelin' like a criminal  
> And I need to be redeemed  
> To the one I've sinned against  
> Because he's all I ever knew of love

Moran drifts somewhere between waking and unconsciousness, dreaming and not dreaming, unable to tell what is real and what is not. He sees the Professor falling, over and over again, but then this is muddled in with images of Ronald Adair, of Kitty too, and the face of his barrister Lamb, and damned Sherlock Holmes even, and then the Professor's voice, coming to him through his burning fever.

“Sebastian.”

_James._

Did he only hallucinate him, standing there in the public gallery?

 _Not guilty_ , they said, but was that just a dream?

Times passes, and at last he awakens lying on his back, on a soft mattress and amongst clean sheets. Sunlight fills the room and he can hear birdsong from outside the window, and nothing much else. There is none of the hustle and bustle of London. He turns his head to the right, sees a water jug and glass on the night-stand beside his bed. He looks a little further over and sees a vase of fresh flowers standing on the windowsill. The room is fairly large, well decorated although some of the wallpaper looks a little worse for wear. He does not recognise this place.

And then he looks to his left, and sees the Professor sitting there.

“Are you dead?” Moran asks, his voice cracking.

“No.”

“Am _I_ dead?”

“No, Sebastian.” The Professor is very still but he sits awkwardly, tense, his hands clasped around the top of his cane, and he looks... older, scarred, but still dignified, still handsome, and Moran's heart seems to turn over to look at him.

“I thought you were...” Moran sits up suddenly, overcome with a desperate need to touch the Professor, and the sudden movement coming so soon after being bedridden for some days is too much for him, so that he almost falls out of the side of the bed.

“Lie down, Sebastian.” Moriarty moves, stiffly, but swiftly enough to grasp Moran and push him back down into the bed. “I'm here.”

Moran feels Moriarty's hand gripping his arm, the warmth of him, the strength of him still, and he feels real and solid and _alive_. Closer to, Moran can see the scars down the Professor's face, although they are almost hidden beneath his beard. He is not wearing the smoked glasses currently, and that look in his eyes, there is clear concern there. Moran looks back at him, confused, lost, wanting to ask so many questions but not even knowing where to begin.

He let Moran down, Moriarty knows that, and he should have listened to Moran, and he knows that too. But he kept his word, he came back to him, and that must count for something, mustn't it? But he doesn't expect forgiveness yet, or for Moran to even be truly pleased to see him. For now Moran is still weak, still half-befuddled from the effects of his illness, barely able even to accept that the Professor is real and not some figure conjured up by his overwrought mind, and later, when he is stronger, Moriarty expects far more anger from him.

“ _How_ are you here?” Moran asks. “You were hurt, in the falls? But how did you-?”

“I will explain everything, later.”

Moran nods at this, too tired to argue. “Right.”

“Here, Sebastian, drink a little water.” Moriarty pours water into the glass and holds it to Moran's lips, supporting his head as he sips at it. “You need to rest, and eat properly, to get your strength back.” Moran looks so thin and so exhausted. He has evidently not been eating properly or sleeping well either, for a long time. Moriarty is a criminal, he knows this, but for all of the crimes he has committed or arranged, Moriarty feels no guilt or remorse over them. Grief though almost killed Moran and the Professor knows this is his fault, and this he does feel guilty about. It is a strange feeling, unpleasant and persistent.

Still, he has arranged this quiet place in the country for Moran to recover in, and he has engaged a housekeeper and cook and ordered the best foods to be brought to them. Perhaps this does not go very far towards atoning for his sins towards his lover, but it is a start.

“Just rest a while, until your breakfast is ready. I will leave you in peace until-”

“No!” Moran grabs Moriarty by the hand, tugging him to a stop as he makes to leave the bedside. “Don't, please, don't... walk away.”

Moriarty looks down at him, at Moran's flushed face, at the sheer terror written across his features. Moran's grip on his hand is weak still, but Moriarty cannot bear to push him away. “All right,” he says. “Would you mind then if I...?” He gestures towards the space in the bed beside Moran.

Looking up at him still, Moran nods, giving his agreement.

The Professor does not climb into bed beside Moran, for that would not do, but he does take up the blanket draped over the back of the chair and bring this to the bed, and sit down on the bed bedside the Colonel. Stiffly he manoeuvres his legs up onto the bed, grimacing slightly as he does so, and covers them with the blanket.

Moran turns his head to watch him, gazing at him still in seeming disbelief that the Professor is still really here.

“Rest, Sebastian,” Moriarty tells him.

“You're in pain,” Moran says.

“A little; it's nothing. Just rest.”

“You will tell me... everything?”

“Later.”

Moran closes his eyes, wearily. “And you won't... go away, if I fall asleep?”

“No.”

Moran's hand seeks out the Professor's again, clasping it gently. “Promise?” he says, his voice slurring with fatigue.

Moriarty looks down at Moran's hand gripping his own. It is as if the Colonel is terrified that the Professor may still vanish in a puff of smoke if he does not physically hold onto him, and that thought pains him far more than the ache in his joints. “I promise,” he says.


End file.
